Stranded
by renrenren3
Summary: It was almost anticlimactic, considering what they'd been through. Dean walked out of his motel room one morning to find Castiel standing next to the Impala.


There should have been some kind of sign, Dean thought, like fire and brimstone, a lightning bolt across a clear sky, a rustle of feathers on the cusp of hearing. Instead, nothing. It was almost anticlimactic, considering what they'd been through. Dean walked out of his motel room one morning to find Castiel standing next to the Impala.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said, sounding surprisingly meek for someone who only last week had ordered him to kneel in front of the new God.

"Cas," Dean replied, for lack of anything better to say.

He stared at the angel across the courtyard, and the angel stared back. Sam was still inside the motel. Dean should have called his brother, at least give him a heads up about the angel in the parking lot, but he didn't. Even after he'd gone dark side, despite all of his threats, Castiel had never tried to harm Sam and Dean, and Dean clung to the hope that Castiel hadn't decided to kill them now.

The angel didn't look threatening. He was the usual Castiel, wearing the same old trench coat and the same old unfathomable expression. If Dean didn't think about it, he could almost forget about Castiel betraying them to take over Purgatory.

Almost.

"Cas, what the hell are you doing here?" Dean asked.

He spoke more harshly than he meant to, and Castiel flinched at his words. "I don't know," he said.

That's not helpful, Dean thought. "I thought you were gone," he said instead. "I saw you drown."

Dean had been on the other end of enough I-thought-you-were-dead conversations to realize just how stupid his words sounded, but he had seen it happen with his own two eyes. Angelic powers or not, Castiel had walked into that lake and never came out. Dean had held on to hope for as long as he could, but after all those weeks he was starting to come to terms with the fact that this was it. No more angels watching over him.

"I was saved," Castiel said. "My Father," (and his voice shook almost imperceptibly over those syllables), "gave me a chance of redemption, no matter how severe my shortcomings."

"Shortcomings my ass," Dean shot back. Castiel flinched again and lowered his eyes, so that he was staring at a patch of dirt to Dean's left. "Cas you allied with Crowley, the fucking _king of Hell_," Dean said, because Crowley _had_ tried to kill him and Sam, and the memory of Lisa still hurt. Once he started, it was difficult to stop. All those months of nagging doubts and uncertainty came rushing back. "I trusted you. Me and Sam, we trusted you with our lives! And you went behind my back and opened Purgatory, man. You almost brought around the Apocalypse. Again. What the fuck."

Castiel didn't reply to that. He looked somewhat like a lost puppy, or like a kid who's just been caught stealing the cookies, but above all he looked tired. Dean would have worried about hurting his angelic feelings if he hadn't been busy worrying about more important stuff. Such as finding an angel in the parking lot of his motel, when only a few days ago he'd been promised by a freshly-resurrected Balthazar that angels weren't going to meddle with human affairs any more. Dean should have known that the bastards weren't to be trusted.

"But what are you doing here, Cas?" Dean asked again, passing one hand over his eyes. This was so not how he wanted to start his day. "And don't give me any of that _'I don't know'_ bullshit," he added when the angel started to speak.

Castiel pressed his lips together and seemed to think about his question. "I am not entirely sure," he said, frowning. "The prophet Chuck ordered me to be here."

"Chuck?" Dean repeated. He hadn't seen the man in months, but he had a fleeting vision of his panicky face. It was hard to imagine him ordering anyone around. If he didn't know that Castiel had no sense of humor whatsoever, he would have called bullshit. "What are you talking about?"

"He gave me this," Castiel said, pulling a battered envelope from the pocket of his trench coat. On the back of an overdue electricity bill addressed to Chuck Shurley, someone had scribbled hasty but detailed directions for the motel where Dean and Sam had spent the night. "He knew you'd be here. It was a long journey, but I'm glad I made it in time."

It was a tough conversation to have so early in the morning without any coffee, and it was as if Cas was being stupid on purpose. "Since when does it take time to teleport around on your magical angel wings?"

There was only the slightest pause. "Since I don't have magical angel wings any more," Cas replied, not quite managing to keep the emotion out of his voice.

He was trying to sound sarcastic by repeating Dean's phrase, but it turned out choked instead, and Dean recognized the expression on his face this time. Homesickness, longing for a place where he felt that he belonged but that he didn't even know how to reach. It was hard to just turn his back on him and walk away.

"You mean... you don't have your angel powers any more?" Dean asked.

Castiel shook his head. "No. Chuck was very definite in that regard. I have been stripped of my grace and sent to live out my days as a human." Someone else might have looked away while saying those words. Not him. Castiel always looked straight at Dean.

"So what you're saying is that you're basically a human now?" Dean said, in case it made more sense the second time around. It didn't, but then again nothing in Dean's life ever made sense aside from the monsters. They wanted to kill him, and he wanted to kill them. Monsters were easy, compared to juggling angels and purgatory and the mysteries of a prophet-slash-god.

"I think so," Castiel confirmed, "but I am not sure. How does it feel to be a human?"

"I don't know," Dean deadpanned. "How does it feel to be an angel?"

The sarcasm was lost on Castiel, who raised his hands and stared at them, as if looking for invisible angel feathers. "It feels... _different_," he said. "I used to share a connection with my brothers, but I don't sense them any more. I no longer remember many things that I used to know. It's as if part of me has been cut off."

It was a statement rather than a complaint, but Dean had enough experience at being stoic to catch the pain beneath Castiel's neutral words. Too bad that Dean's life was already too fucked up for him to worry about someone else's problems, especially if that someone had recently almost got him killed.

"So why did Chuck tell you to come here?" Dean asked, coming back to the main issue. "What did he tell you?"

Castiel bowed his head. "He said that I had to atone."

"To atone, uh?" Dean said. "You know, it's going to take more than a crummy _'I'm sorry'_ to fix the mess you've made."

Castiel didn't reply. "For a moment, I thought I was going to die too," he said instead. "But I didn't. Dean, this is my Father's will. He talked to me."

"Couldn't spare a moment when the apocalypse was looming, came rushing back when his status as head honcho was threatened," Dean muttered. "Just typical."

Castiel only looked more sorrowful and unfathomable. "I think my Father is disappointed that I failed him," he said. "All I did was because I thought it was his will, but instead I failed."

It was so perfect that Dean wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Good intentions. Fathers who disappear. Sons who disappoint. Doubtless, Castiel thought it poetic justice. Dean thought that God had a twisted sense of humor.

"So," Dean began, unsure how to phrase his question. "When you... came back..."

"When I came back to Earth as a human, you mean?" Castiel supplied.

It wasn't what Dean had in mind. He'd been thinking about coming back to life, about surfacing from a shallow grave in the middle of the deserted countryside, maybe surfacing from a lake instead. "Yeah," he said anyway, pushing that thought away. "Why did Chuck send you here of all places? Can't you atone in a monastery somewhere, or in Jerusalem, or... or, I don't know, anywhere else," he finished lamely.

There was nothing special about Laramie, Wyoming. That is, nothing aside from Dean and Sam and their next job.

"I didn't think to question the words of a prophet," Castiel replied. "He sent me here, so I came here."

"So what, you think God sent you to this parking lot?" Dean asked, jabbing a finger towards the concrete pavement. "And then what? What are you supposed to do now?" What where _they_ supposed to do with a fallen angel?

"I don't know," Castiel said. "My feet also hurt from walking, and I'm tired of standing."

Dean took a long breath, unsure of what to say. Just then, Sam came out of their room.

"Dean!" his brother exclaimed, half in surprise, half in warning. His eyes darted from Castiel to his brother to the Impala. Probably running a quick inventory of their anti-angel weaponry, Dean guessed. "What's he doing here?" Sam asked, much less friendly than Dean had been, jerking his head towards Castiel.

Dean really, really didn't want to explain about angel community service on an empty stomach. "I'll tell you over breakfast," he said before Sam could shoot anyone.

There was a diner a couple of blocks from the motel. The three of them sat in a booth next to the door, and the red-headed waitress slid three greasy menus in front of them.

Castiel stared at the menu. Sam stared at Castiel. Dean stared at Sam and Castiel and the menu, and privately cursed his life until the waitress got back with a large pot of coffee.

"What can I get you?" she asked. She was pretty, despite her hooked nose, but Dean's life was too fucked up to even consider getting laid. It was a sad thought.

Sam stopped staring at Castiel for just long enough to glance at the menu. "Mushroom omelet," he said. "With toast."

"I'll have a slice of apple pie," Dean announced with forced brightness, because pie was always a good idea and he needed a pick-me-up. Even the waitress had noticed the almost toxic atmosphere around the table.

Only Castiel didn't seem to notice that there was anything wrong, but then again he had never been good with emotions.

The waitress looked at Castiel expectantly and tapped her pencil against the notepad. "Sir?"

Dean nudged Castiel. "She means you," he said, but Castiel didn't seem to have mastered the subtle art of ordering food yet. He looked up from the menu and stared around with vacant eyes. Dean rolled his eyes. "He'll have pie too," he told the waitress.

She filled three mugs with coffee and left. The coffee was lukewarm, but drinking it gave Dean something to do aside from staring. Nobody spoke a word until the food arrived.

Dean attacked his apple pie at once, while it was still warm. "I'm starving," he mumbled with his mouth still half-full. "This is just what I needed, a good breakfast to start the day."

"Pie's not exactly breakfast food," Sam pointed out.

"I like pie," Dean replied. "You don't know what you're missing out, this is some seriously good pie. Seriously good."

It was an average pie, but Dean felt the need to ramble in a desperate attempt to stave off more awkward silence. Sam just shrugged and didn't even scold him for talking while eating. Only the waitress flashed him a smile before moving to another table. Discouraged, Dean dropped his gaze to his plate.

Castiel speared a piece of pie on the point of his fork and regarded it critically before finally biting into it. He chewed with a thoughtful expression on his face. "This is good," he conceded.

Dean grinned. Always a good idea, pie. "You should try it with whipped cream," he said, and laughed when Castiel upended the can with so much enthusiasm that some whipped cream flew on Sam's plate. His brother glared and cleaned the cream away with a paper napkin.

"So, Cas," Sam said in the least convincing casual tone ever. "Why are you here?"

Castiel's face fell a little as he repeated his story for Sam. Got de-drowned by God, got booted out of Heaven, am under orders from Chuck to stalk you, lost and confused. Dean ate while Castiel talked, only butting in when it looked as if Castiel was about to go off on a philosophical tangent.

Sam didn't interrupt even once, but as soon as Castiel had finished talking he turned towards his brother. "Dean," Sam said in a quiet voice once, "can I talk to you for a minute?"

Dean raised an eyebrow and put down the fork. "Sure," he said.

Castiel went back to his pie as the two of them slid out of the booth and retreated behind a sad-looking potted plant.

"Dude, what's going on?" Sam asked. "What are we doing?"

"I thought we were having breakfast," Dean replied.

"Be serious," Sam said. He jerked a thumb towards Castiel, currently busy sniffing the coffee and making faces. "I meant about him."

Dean shrugged. "I don't know," he replied.

"You can't possibly believe the story that he told us!" Sam said. "So, what, do you want to keep him around? Are we going to trust him after all he did?"

"I said I don't know!" Dean snapped, loud enough that a couple of heads turned towards them. He pushed Sam further away from their table, even though Castiel didn't seem to have heard. "He turned up at the motel with a sob story," he said in a lower tone, "I couldn't just tell him to get lost."

Sam snorted. "Yes you could," he said. "Did you forget the part where Castiel tried to take over the world?"

"Did you forget the part where he was our friend?" Dean replied. The more they argued, the angrier he felt. He could see Sam's point only too well, he too had his doubts about this whole situation, but if he didn't take Castiel's side nobody would.

"Dean, we can't trust him," Sam insisted. "He's a loose cannon!"

"Cannon's out of ammo," Dean said. "He's been kicked out by the big guy in the sky. No more angel mojo for him."

"So he says," Sam replied. "What if this is part of his plan?"

Dean looked back at Castiel who was methodically cleaning his plate. "In that case," he replied, "his cunning plan to score some free pie has worked. Come on, I want to finish my own breakfast before it gets cold."

His half-eaten pie was no longer warm by the time he sat back at the table, but they were still good and Dean was hungry. He wolfed down his breakfast while Sam pushed the omelet around in his plate.

Dean noticed that Castiel made a mess while eating. "Didn't anyone teach you how to use a napkin?" he asked.

Castiel gave him an affronted look that seemed to convey _I'm a former angel of the Lord, I know not of table manners_. It would have been more impressive if he hadn't had a smudge of whipped cream at the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, for the love of," Dean said. He snatched Castiel's unused napkin and leaned across the table to clean the worst of the mess from the face of the former angel of the Lord. Sam rolled his eyes and signaled for the bill.

When Dean took out his wallet, Castiel looked awkward. "Dean, I haven't got any money," he said in a small voice.

Dean had figured that much. "If you want to pay us back, you can help with this job we're currently on," he said.

The prospect didn't exactly fill Sam with joy, but Dean stared at his brother until he grudgingly nodded. "We could use the help," he admitted.

"You see," Dean said, "While angels and demons were nuking it out over Purgatory, monsters were having the time of their lives." He replayed that sentence in his heads. "Or undeaths," he amended. "Or whatever."

"Which wouldn't have happened if every single hunter hadn't been so busy with your shit," Sam told Castiel.

The angel (former angel, Dean had to remind himself) had at least the decency to look ashamed. "I'll make amends for that," he said, bowing his head.

"You better," Sam said. "There's only so much that me and Dean can do on our own. Even vengeful spirits can be a handful... The more you let them be, the more powerful they become."

"So you're going to help us," Dean said. He wasn't sure of how helpful an angel without angel mojo would be, but better than nothing. "And in exchange we'll teach you basic human skills like shaving, pool hustling and grave digging."

Sam raised an eyebrow at him. "Really? Those are basic human skills for you?" Dean ignored him.

Cas thought about it for a while and then held out his hand. "I believe that's what humans do to seal a deal," he said.

Dean shook his hand, and then Sam did too, trying his best not to look too grudging.

"Deal," he said. He had the suspicion that Sam wouldn't want anything to do with Cas, at least not for another good while, and he would be the one stuck babysitting an angel with the attention span and patience of a five years old. He was strangely okay with that. "C'mon," he said, patting Castiel's arm, "we've got work to do."


End file.
